


Am I Blue?

by DixieDale



Series: The Life and Times of One Peter Newkirk [43]
Category: Clan O'Donnell - Fandom, Hogan's Heroes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-17 07:02:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14827626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: A trip to see Mavis leads to unexpected avenues of contemplation in Andrew, Peter and Caeide.    Why are Outlanders always so complicated?  What is the common factor between 'caffeine-wired jackrabbits' and 'a photograph of a bowl of soup'?  Is Caeide ever going to come to the end of her eternal Lists, or is she just starting a family trend?  Would she really consider leaving Peter and Andrew?  What the heck was Andrew doing at a blue film in the first place and why did it leave him so upset?  And can the sacrifice of a living heart heal the all so-evident wounds?





	Am I Blue?

**Author's Note:**

> 'Blue films', ie. pornographic or stag films are nothing new, of course. Even in the days of the silent films this genre had its place, and the advent of talking pictures only increased the scope. Establishments where one could go to view such films became popular very early on, replacing in part the establishments where 'live performances' provided the entertainment; the proprietors found it less expensive, particularly later on once the films were more readily available, than hiring actual performers.

Dear Journal,  
Sometimes I get so confused. I suppose that's to be expected; I am Clan, living with four Outlanders now Claimed by the Clan. Yes, they are my Family, and I love them dearly, but still they were raised Outlanders, and they think so oddly sometimes. Well, I'm sure they don't consider it so and most likely think the same of me, but I'm left struggling to figure out what and why more often than you'd think after all the studying I've done, all we've gone through together. I try very hard to understand, and if I don't understand, to accept, but sometimes, it just feels ODD, and sometimes, especially with Peter and Andrew? Sometimes it's downright scary! I sometimes fear I'll ruin everything by my not understanding.

It was such a very good night; the three of us seemed totally in tune with one another, and I know I went to sleep totally contented, chuckling over that last little bit of wordplay between the two of them. Today we didn't have to rush quite so much getting up, since none of the cows are in milk. Andrew and I lay there, laughing about something, I'm not sure what, while Peter grumped at us and got up to take his shower. We watched him cross the floor and exchanged a grin of appreciation at the sight. But before Andrew left my bed, when I smoothed his hair down, kissed his cheek and told him that I loved him, he looked at me with those big brown eyes and said, "you don't love me like you love Peter, though, do you?" Well, what was I supposed to say? I told him the truth, "no, of course not, I love you like I love YOU."

He was very quiet after that, more than my chattering Andrew usually is. I think I said something wrong, but I don't understand what, and I'm not sure I understand his question even, now that I think more closely on it. Love is not like salt, the same for everywhere you sprinkle it, almost the opposite, if that makes any sense. Love is the THING, the person you love is what seasons the LOVE, giving it its individuality. Why would I love him like I love Peter? How could I? I love PETER like I love Peter. I love ANDREW like I love Andrew. They are not the same person; of course, I love them differently.

I have four sisters, after all; I don't love Meghada like I love Ciena, nor either of them like I love Coura, and none of them like I love Ouisa. They are not the same people; how COULD I love them the same?

I think maybe I need to talk to Andrew again; maybe I didn't understand what he was saying, what he was asking. I'm confused. Just because we speak the same language doesn't always mean we mean the same thing with the same words, I think. He didn't seem to want to talk more about it. Should I have told him all the ways I love HIM, all the things I love about him, all the things that make me glad he is here, that he is family, that he is my love? I don't know.

They leave for London in the morning; maybe when they get back it will be clearer to me. I wrote out a list once of all the things I love about Peter, when I needed to make a decision, think things through very clearly. Maybe I'll write a list like that about Andrew; I've thought of doing it, but haven't because the list is already here, inside my head, inside my heart. Yes, I think I will. In fact, I need to add to that list for Peter, and for the others, too. It seems each day, I find something new I love about each of them.

Dear Journal,  
Andrew and Peter got back from their trek to London, and I think maybe something happened that got them upset. Surely they didn't run into the Big Brown Eagle there? They haven't said anything like that, but something doesn't feel right, you know? I'd thought it was good that Peter is now free to go to London to see Mavis if he likes, and he wanted to take Andrew with him instead of one of us, and it seemed like a good idea, 'guys night out', expanded to a long weekend, but now? It seems like more of an Andrew problem than Peter, but I can't be sure of that.

Dear Journal,  
What did go on in London? Andrew today asked me if I knew what a blue film was? Not that Andrew doesn't ask some 'out of nowhere' questions sometimes, but this one really came 'out of the blue', not to be facetious. I told him that I did, of course. He didn't want to continue the conversation, though I tried to give him the opportunity.

What brought that on? Did Peter take him to see one in London? Doesn't sound much like something Peter would do, he's so protective of Andrew. Though maybe it's a guy thing, and he'd think it was just a fun thing to do together.

Blue films. I've seen a few, always connected to a project, not of my own accord, but I've never understood the appeal, to be honest. Even if WHAT they are trying to portray is portrayed with reasonable accuracy, well, it's only the physical ACTS that are portrayed, after all, not the emotion that goes with it, and that is so hollow. Even if they tried to portray the emotions, they are actors and it wouldn't be real, and without that, well, I don't see the point.

Really, I've never been that much of a 'looker' at people's bodies, even in art, well, except for Peter and Andrew of course, and I truly enjoy looking at THEM, they are each so beautiful in their own way; watching naked bodies that I don't know, and don't have any feelings for, it's just never had any appeal. And the films I've seen, they seem so overwrought, so forced, so much so, well, so energetic and so 'speedy', I was tempted to giggle, like I was watching caffeine-wired jack rabbits in the throes.

Well, I guess that makes sense; they only have so much time, so much film, so maybe it is a matter of economy, but to me it seemed like they had the film playing at the wrong speed, like those cartoons where the character is just zipping and bobbing around like crazy!

In other ways, it was like looking at a picture of a bowl of soup, though of course a bowl of soup is rather placid compared to rutting bunnies, but you know what I mean. Perhaps the concept of what was happening was appealing, but hardly satisfying, not something you'd exchange for a real bowl of soup, or even the scent of a bowl of soup, or truly, even for the written recipe.

Maybe it's just me. The ones I've seen just made me feel a bit sad, a bit tired. Pornography may mean something different to most guys than to women, as does erotica, so I just don't know. Did Peter take Andrew to a blue film, and did it upset Andrew? I don't think I can ask Peter without betraying Andrew's confidence, though. I don't know if I should bring the subject up again with Andrew or not. 

Dear Journal,  
Andrew hasn't joined us the past few nights, and it feels strange. Not that I don't love being with Peter; I ALWAYS love being with Peter, just like I love Peter. But I love being with Andrew too, like I love Andrew, I love being with both of them, and it doesn't feel like he's staying away because he's just not in the mood or is extra tired; it's like something's wrong. I think Peter feels it too, and Andrew is making a point of being super busy, not meeting our eye at bedtime, shying away from our touch. Did we offend him, somehow? Has he decided this isn't what he wants? Does he understand how much he choses to give, to be a part of, it's all his decision? I thought he did; I know Peter thought he did. I get the feeling that he's avoiding Peter, as well, and Peter is looking a bit lost. He loves Andrew so much and would never knowingly do anything to hurt him, to upset him. Just what is going on? Is it me, did Andrew decide he didn't want to be with me, so he's staying from Peter too, just to keep from hurting my feelings?

I DO wish I understood how Outlanders thought? Or more likely, I just need to figure out how our beloved Andrew thinks. Sometimes, Outlander and Clan, it's like being from two different planets, and I'm so afraid I'll ruin what we have, all of us, by not understanding them.

Dear Journal,  
Alright, I've had it! Enough of this, I know I'm being all those things the Big Brown Eagle said I was, but they are miserable, my two loves, and I can't handle that! I built Haven, this new rendition, to be a shelter, a true haven for those I care for; there's nothing that says I have to stay here if it tears at their peace. I'll talk to Andrew and Peter tomorrow. If there isn't a good resolution with my being here, the old homestead is still there. I lived there in some contentment for all those years; it would still be a place of comfort for me. If it's somehow my presence that is disturbing our waters, then perhaps with some distance, my loves can find their own comfort again. We'll see. I could still manage Haven, the farm from there; we'd still be family, just not so on top of each other, so to speak; I can't bear to see them both so unhappy, and them being unhappy makes Maude and Marisol miserable too.

*****

Andrew was having coffee when she came in from dealing with the big stock. The basket of eggs on the counter told her he and Marisol had taken care of the poultry, and she sat the two pails of fresh milk along side the eggs.

"Morning, Andrew. Did you sleep well, then?" but when he turned to her, she knew he hadn't. She frowned, and reached out her hand to cup his face, "love, you look like you didn't sleep at all. Is something wrong?"

He jerked his head away, "nothing's wrong. What do you need me to do today?" He was studying his coffee cup; strange, she hadn't thought it needed that much attention, it was just a cup, after all, an empty one at that.

"Where's Peter?" she asked.

"In the office, maybe; I haven't seen him," and that got her attention. The two of them were ALWAYS aware of where the other was; something was very, very wrong. She took a deep breath, and knew the time was now.

"Alright, Andrew, here's what you need to do today. You need to tell me just what's wrong, because, lad, whatever it is, it's driving me bloody out of my mind!" she told him, no give to her voice, and his jaw dropped as he looked up at her. Her lips were quivering and there were tears in her eyes, but her jaw was set firm; he knew that jaw; she meant business.

He heard a voice behind him, "and I'm not far behind her, Andrew. You've got to tell us what we've done wrong; I don't think we can stand much more of the not knowing, of not knowing what we can do to make things right again," came from Peter, looking not much better than Andrew looked, hollows under his eyes, misery showing clearly.

He looked at them, from one to the other, he swallowed, and the words came tumbling out, and first Caeide, then Peter sat in the kitchen chairs as if their legs couldn't hold them. 

They listened, stunned. Where had all this come from? Had the Big Brown Eagle really caused this much damage? Was it from the cousins? From others, from other things, other events? Did he truly value himself so little that he couldn't see how much he offered them, gave them; how much they valued him? And he was judging himself against some bloody performance in a blue film, of all things??? She thought of her journal and what she'd written, {"he thinks I want some oversized rutting bunny in my bed? He thinks Peter wants that?"} If this wasn't so serious, she would have laughed at the picture that brought to her mind.

He finally ground to a halt.

Caeide looked at the two of them and rasped out, "wait here, the both of you. Just wait!" as she dashed upstairs to get her Journal. She stood there, holding it tightly in her hands. This was a private thing; she'd never shown it to anyone; it was how she sorted out her own thoughts, and she'd never thought she'd need to let it into anyone else's hands, but now, maybe, this would serve better than anything she could say, any new words. This was what had already been thought, already been written, not new words trying to put a bandage on a wound, new words made up, trying to manufacture a solution, made up words he might doubt. Part of it might be embarrassing; she truly said what she thought when she wrote, without censoring herself, and she didn't remember if there was anything like that on those pages. This journal was her heart; she held nothing back. She vaguely remembered that in some cultures only the sacrifice of a living heart was deemed worthy. Making sure the bookmark was at the right place, she swallowed deeply, turned and headed out of the room. Resolutely, she made her way back down the wooden staircase and into the kitchen. 

"This seems to have started with the visit to London, or right before. Lads, you know I keep a journal; it's how I keep my thoughts organized, along with my lists," getting a feeble chuckle from each of them over that topic of general amusement.

"It's private, I don't let anyone read it, but now, I think maybe it's needed. Andrew, this page starts the week before you and Peter left for London. Please, read, see if this . . . I don't even know the words, if it helps, if it explains, I don't know. Just read, and then please, PLEASE, laddie, talk to me? Ask me whatever, tell me whatever, just TALK to me, talk to US!" And the grief in her voice was real, the tears in her eyes just as real.

Peter was more than confused, but stayed silent. {"Mayhap she knows what's going on, I sure as bloody 'ell don't, and I can't 'andle much more,"} he thought, aching inside at the thought of all he thought he'd finally found being lost somehow.

He sat, she poured them all coffee and watched it get cold in the cups. She looked at Peter, to see the sheer misery in his face and she slid her hand over his in comfort, feeling him grip hers tightly in return. She looked at Andrew, watching him read, wishing she could understand the expressions crossing his face, but unable to do so, they came and went, changed so quickly, so often. She watched him pull out the pieces of paper she had tucked into the pages, the lists she'd made for how she felt, what she valued about each member of the Haven family - Peter, Andrew, Maude, Marisol - and read each carefully.

Finally, he closed the journal, closed it and sat it gently in the middle of the table, and slowly looked at her, looked at Peter, then back at her again.

"Really?" in a deep raspy voice, far deeper than Andrew's voice, like his throat was closed up from a cold, or from crying, "you love how I look at Angie?"

And she laughed, or it was intended to be a laugh, though the tears choked it off. "Aye, that I do, Andrew."

And he sat there, shaking his head, a half smile, a half laugh coming over him. Finally, he looked at Peter again, "Peter, did you know she has a list of the 'top 100 things I love about him' under your name?"

And then his face changed, to be unbelievably vulnerable, and his voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, "did you know she has a list of the 'top 100 things I love about him' under MY name?" and the tears were ready to fall, they could both tell.

Peter cleared his throat, and his voice was in no better shape than his young luv's, "no, no I didn't, Andrew, but it don't surprise me; she makes lists of just about everything, you know, and something as important as that, it seems likely she'd 'ave done so. Do you need, want me to make my own list, Andrew luv? I could, you know, though I'm not much one for words, but I could. I can easily find that many things, you know."

And the eyes that met his, though filled with tears, were the eyes of his Andrew again, not that woebegone distant stranger, and he knew they would weather this storm, as they had weathered others, and would withstand the ones still to come.

Andrew looked the question at Caeide, and without hesitation she nodded, and he opened the journal to the bookmark.

"It starts there, Peter, and the lists are at the last page of it." And Peter read, so that he might understand better what he could of all this. Her acknowledgement of the differences in how they all saw things, how confused it made her sometimes, well, that made him smile, because he felt the same, {"think I need to tell her, maybe tell all of them that; wouldn't be surprised if it's not just us two."} Her thoughts on blue films made him laugh, especially the 'zipping and bobby at high speed' part. He wondered at her saying she found his body beautiful, since he was ever aware of all the scars, the weathering. {"Just how did my Andrew end up at a blue film??"} crossed his mind, but only in passing. {"Our Caeide, she was willing to move to the old homestead, away from the dream she'd built, all for us?? She built it FOR us; she'd LEAVE it, for us??"} came through more clearly.

And the lists, they made him smile, and the things on HIS list, he actually had to laugh at some of those things she'd thought to include. {"She wrote that she made my list when she was going to have to make a decision; I think I need to ask 'er about that."}

And he got up and dumped the three cups of cold coffee into a pan for heating later and refilled them with fresh from the pot, pulled a tin of biscuits from the pie cupboard and sat back down. And he started talking, and asking questions of Caeide, and some of Andrew; they answered, and asked some of their own, and although there was not more love, because how do you get 'more' of something so complete, perhaps there was a deeper settling, a deeper understanding and acceptance of that love.

And Peter did write out his lists, later, for Andrew and for Caeide, and then for Maude and Marisol; and remembering how he'd felt when he'd read what she'd said about him, he made another copy, tucking one set into his desk, leaving the other for each of those he shared this Haven with.

And that night the three of them held close to each other, not in passion, but in love, and warmth, and so much more. Passion would return another night; for tonight, there was something more important. And when passion did claim them, it would be at its own pace, its own speed, and there would be nothing of acting, nor anything forced, and nothing bringing to mind rutting bunnies, only three individuals with overwhelming love for each other, sharing that love as best they knew how.

***

"You never asked me, you know," Peter said to her a couple of weeks later.

"Never asked you what?"

"Why I'd take Andrew to one of those films."

She looked at him, expressionless. "No, I haven't, have I?" and continuing on with her grooming of the chestnut mare. Silence.

"Why not?" She kept her face toward the broad shoulder of Isabelle, one of Angie's daughters, not sure she could control the expression on her face; she could read the trepidation in his voice, enough she didn't have to be watching his face, though she really would have liked to. She loved to see the movement of expression, all else he showed when he got panicked or confused or whatever else came to his mind at times like these. She was always torn between wanting to console him, tease him, or take him to bed; that had never changed, not in these oh so many years, long before that last would ever have been possible!

"Peter, how old are you?"

"What? You know just how bloody old I am!" a trifle abrupt since he was still more than a trifle sensitive about it, that difference in their ages, and not being at all sure what that had to do with the conversation he was TRYING to hold with her.

"Just wanted to be sure. Last I reckoned it, you're a grown man, and Andrew as well. If you want to use your time and funds sitting in a dark room watching such on the screen, probably listening to others in the audience 'enjoy' themselves, then that's what you should do. As long as you wash your hands afterwards, before you come home, I'm sure I'll not quarrel with that."

She trembled with glee as he exploded behind her, "Caeide Marene O'Donnell, if you bloody well think I took young Andrew to some dive den with a bunch of rousers to sit around and . . ." and then her giggles made their way back to him, and he yanked her around, to look at her face.

"You, you BRAT!!" and she couldn't hold back any longer, laughed out loud, leaning her head into his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, love, but my mind kept going back to what I was told awhile back, about being too 'mothering'. I'm neither your mother, nor am I Andrew's, and if you had decided to visit a, oh I think the new term is 'art theatre', I trust you to know what you're doing. The only thing I'm shocked by is the result; it would never have occured to me that someone who could have come up with something so REAL, so intensely PERSONAL, as 'Andrew's Dance' would have gotten so twisted around by such a flimsy bit of playacting as presented in any of those films. Nor could I imagine him, either of you, thinking I'd expect, prefer what's shown in one."

She looked up at him, her face slowing taking on a more serious mien.

"Peter, my dearest, to my mind, the only one interested in someone or something 'hung like a horse' is a mare, which I am not. And if either of you think I'd let someone like that near me with a ten foot pole, which is a rather apt analogy if I remember correctly from the last film I saw," and listened to him snort in response, "then you are sadly mistaken. Nor am I interested in a bad case of friction burn in uncomfortable places!"

And the look on his face again brought her laughter, and a warm hug to his shoulders, and a kiss to his cheek. He shook his head, laughing with her now, his arms loosely around her waist.

"I didn't, you know. Never occured to me. Mav 'ad some things she needed me to 'elp 'er with at the bank, bout those funds I was transferring over to 'er; Andrew decided to stay at the 'otel. Seems 'e went awandering betimes. I doubt 'e truly understood what 'e'd be seeing, though maybe I'm wrong; Andrew does surprise me often enough." He looked at her, just a bit of a question in his eyes and he started to say something, but gave a tiny shake of his head and didn't.

{"No, HE can't be thinking those same silly thoughts, can he? Wondering if I find him 'adequate'? Peter?? Oh dear heavens, I have to talk to Mom and some of the others about this, whether it's another one of those 'guy' things, or whether it's one of those 'Outlander' things!"}

"Maybe we might need to find an opportunity to discuss fantasy versus reality sometime, though I'd not have thought so. I mean, that rather elaborate one you and he came up with about the two farmers taking that long bus trip up to the city and what came during and after - as a fantasy, it was remarkably erotic; if that sort of thing appealed to you in real life, I'd never be able to let either of you leave Haven for fear of that phone call that you two had been beaten up, were currently in jail and probably NOT coming home again after the judge passed sentence! I've never had any doubt you and he both know the difference, quite well, and trust you to act accordingly, as I hope you trust me. After all, when you think of it, Haven is the perfect setting for one of those pornographic Victorian novels so popular at one time, but you don't see me acting on the notion, do you?"

And Andrew's voice came from the doorway, "yes, well, I've thought of a new variation to that bus trip, maybe two, we might try some time." And they turned to see his wide grin, those mischievious eyes, clear and bright and free from any worry, and they knew he'd been there for most if not all of the conversation. "Maybe later this afternoon, even?" and they all laughed, with amusement and a little bit of anticipation.

She frowned a bit then, with a air of uncertainty, "well, if you're sure you want me to, if you think I'm adequate; I'm hardly built like one of those actresses, you know," looking down at her body, then up at them with a sly grin.

What with them taking the time to reassure her that they found her most pleasing, most alluring, most adequate, well that variation on the bus trip had to wait for another day, as a new variation of the 'hay loft' incident took its place, to the satisfaction of all. And never once did either of her men take the time to consider whether she or their other love found them 'adequate' or 'pleasing', the answer being so self-evident. Though they did remember to ask her to clarify that bit about the Victorian novels.


End file.
